Mr. Do-It-Yourself, Part I | The Beachside Resident

By: Rick LaClaire

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Several years ago I needed a new roof. Actually, this place needed a new roof the minute we moved in. This we discovered during our first real downpour as new homeowners, a nagging inundation known as Tropical Storm Gordon in 1994. A stain spread across our living room ceiling that still exists, somewhat resembling the outline of Iceland. Or is it Afghanistan? Anyway, after five months of living here, I had never inspected the attic. This was cause for a stepladder and flashlight, the tearing of cobwebs, and the realization that our roof was rotten.

Of course we didn’t have any money, so for years I tarred and patched — even replaced the ridge vent — merely stalling the inevitable. Finally, after ten years, the need had to be addressed. We were leaking with every rain. Iceland had expanded to Mongolia. I still didn’t have any money, still don’t for that matter, and the thought occurred that I would roof this place myself. How hard could it be? I knew the basic mechanics. I’d fixed it a dozen times. I’d also helped others fix theirs. I’d seen roofs laid all over my neighborhood, witnessed new construction, and even took out a library book: “Roofing For Complete Dummies.” All I needed was a crew. What better source than friends?

Half of them were dismissed because of their size, which I limited to 250 pounds. Okay, so my friends like to eat. So do I. Another third had back, hip, elbow or carpal tunnel issues. Okay, so my friends are getting old. So am I. Six others had a fear of (pick one) heights, bees, sun, ladders, nails with big heads or work in general. That left me with one assistant. My son. He was only 9 at the time, and though willing, had issues with his mother. You know what? So do I.

Obviously, a crew was not to be had. I would have to do it myself. But then I got to thinking. What if I encounter a clown up there? You never know where those bastards’ll show up. It’s likely I would launch into a vomiting spree, slip in the goo and fall off. I could not take that chance. A roofer would have to be found.

I called five. Four showed up. The prices were astoundingly varied. So were their approaches. One insisted my soffit and fascia be included in the deal or he wouldn’t do it. That estimate pushed 10 grand. Definitely a nix. Another was more interested in my pineapple crop than my roof. For half an hour we discussed their propagation, cultivation and preservation. Then he glanced at my roof and spouted a figure. The other two were all business. Tape measures came out, along with lectures on shingle types, and an actual walk-around on the roof itself. Their results were similar: a square-foot shingle price with a price per sheet of plywood. Both agreed there was plenty of “roof-rot”. The first guy estimated six sheets, the second, ten.

We went with higher priced of the two (they were recommended by a friend) and three days and thirteen sheets of plywood later, we had our roof. Could I have done it? Even if I had been guaranteed there would be no clowns aloft, simply, no. They had all kinds of complications, things I would never have known how to solve, even with the “Dummies” book in my lap. They were pros, had seen it all before, and later that year mine was the only roof in the neighborhood undamaged in that mean season of mean seasons, 2004.

Fast forward five years… “Do you hear water running?” There are certain phrases guaranteed to lob the icy medicine ball of dread into any man’s gut: “I’m late” (and stupidly you ask, “For what?”)… “I’m pretty sure I’m not contagious this week”… “There’s a puddle of red stuff under your truck”… And the worst: “Do you hear water running?”

We heard water running. No one was showering. No one was doing laundry. The icemaker broke three months ago, it had been removed. I checked the outside hoses. All off. Toilet cisterns were full. There was not a drop of water under the sinks or anywhere else. Only one conclusion could be drawn: a burst pipe.

Did you know there’s a leak indicator on your water meter? It’s described on the back of your bill. It’s a tiny triangle in its own little niche, and ours was spinning wildly. The next step was to find out how much we were leaking. I timed the meter for an hour. Five gallons. “That’s not too bad,” I thought. Then I showed a neighbor. “Fifty gallons,” he said. “There’s another zero to the right.” I brushed aside a chunk of dirt. Yep, another zero. The medicine ball of dread sank to my bowels. By next day, fifty was seventy. We had to act.

My first trip to the hardware store involved the purchase of a “meter key.” This is not something which dangles handily on a chain and fits in your pocket. It’s a ten-dollar assemblage of rebar designed to manipulate the balky valve which shuts the water off between the street and the house. It’s about three feet long, has a “U” on the business end, and is the envy of every citizen on the street. It also does a dandy job of blackening a toenail when dropped just so.

Anyone who’s ever been camping knows the drill I’m about to describe. Going without air conditioning, electricity or a sound roof is certainly a pain. But going without running water is downright uncivilized. Water is civilization. Every city, every home for that matter, is dependant on the coming and going of H20 to make it habitable. Without it, we are no more than those Namibian dung beetles which stick their butts in the air every morning to glean precious drops of dew. We were suddenly made aware of every frivolous use of water. Knowing that leaving the meter switched on carried the expense of a thousand gallons a day. We had to conserve. We only turned it on at intervals; predetermined times of day for dishes, showers and laundry. We filled buckets to flush the toilets. With this process, we probably cut our use by nine-tenths. But you could still hear it gushing when it was on. What a waste.

There had to be an easy fix. Faucets and toilets were inspected and every suspicion repaired. That took a day. No dice. Still gushing. Two more days were lost attempting to trace the supply line from the meter. The lines (we were told) were old galvanized pipe and probably rotten. Simple fix, if so. Simple if you could find it… I soon discovered the line was new copper, replaced when a berm was installed by the previous owner. That thing twisted all over the yard, coming into the house many feet from where the original was. And though crooked, it was sound. We came to realize the worst: a leak under the slab. Adding salt to the wound, an officer with the city water department suddenly showed up.

“You’re being cited for overuse,” he stated, clipboard in hand. “Thirty-two thousand gallons last month alone.” He looked around the yard. It resembled the Western Front in the Great War. “Oh,” he qualified. “You already know. Have you found the leak?”

“It’s not above ground, and it’s not out here,” I groaned.

“Oh,” he repeated. “Sorry… These old houses… It’s always under the slab. Good luck.”

Good luck… The experts were called. Just like the roof, estimates varied wildly. From a 600-dollar “locate-and-patch” — which would not preclude further leaks — to 3,000 for re-piping the house; the most sound approach. Then I called the real experts: friends and family. It seemed everyone I knew had faced this same problem, and the solution was ubiquitous: re-pipe the whole house via the attic. “Uh… What?” was my response, remembering the condition of that space during my roof-repair days. It was made clear that someone (me) would have to negotiate that slice of hell from stem to stern, threading pipe and sinking access holes. And though they all agreed on method, material was up for debate. My craftsmen-friends opted for copper, the traditional pipe, sweated with flame and solder, a method I had used for small repairs but was no expert at. Also, the spaces where flame would be required were close, dry wood all around, and I had no desire to set this place afire. “No problem,” they insisted, “if you know what you’re doing.” I did not possess that qualification.

A local plumber pushed for a material known as Pex. “You can thread it anywhere. They use it in boats and mobile homes. I’ve never known it to fail.” I was intrigued, but still not sure. Two other ex-plumbers, now working at local big-box stores, were adamant about CPVC. Cheaper than copper, easy to work with, tooling was cheap, and all new construction was using it (which I affirmed). Now I was confused. Each material had its pros and cons and I didn’t have any time to waste. This Bedouin lifestyle was getting old. There was only one source I could trust implicitly. His daughter was involved.

I would consult the plumbing guru’s guru; the Prince Of Pipe; the Sultan Of Solder: my father-in-law.